


Accidental Exile

by thousandmonkeys



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Gen, Yayoi Period AU, because the writer is an ancient history nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousandmonkeys/pseuds/thousandmonkeys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody would care about a ship boy's name once they landed. Thankfully. At least this way he wouldn't have to spend the rest of his life on the run. Gift for tumblr user Akutazu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Exile

“So—that’s where the we’re headed?” 

In the relative silence of the deck, the ventured question seemed absurd; the pause in activity even more so. It was in the early hours of the morning, though, and none of the harsher taskmasters were up and about.

And if there was one thing the dark-haired boy knew, ship boys were insufferable gossips, despite their best finery.

Some large wave crashed onto the deck, and the boy jumped back in an attempt to avoid the water; tasting of salt and probably fish piss, the ocean was  _worst_ thing he’d ever had the misfortune to experience. He wiped the side of his mouth absently with a sleeve—and grimaced. The clammy feeling of brine, crusting on skin and sticking fabric to un, the ever present _salt_ , seemed to intrude on every movement the boy made; he’d long resigned himself to the clammy feeling of sea water on skin, but it didn’t mean he _enjoyed_ it.

Even the salted vegetables tasted more briny than organic. He’d thought that was impossible, but apparently there _was_ a way to get in more salt. The boy fervently wished he’d never had to find out, though.

The lack of fresh food was probably the worst thing about this journey. So much for an opulent ship; it was clear once they’d left the harbour—amongst much pomp and ceremony, of course, with drums loud enough to keep pace for an army—that the ship had no intention of returning to the Middle Kingdom.

Good riddance. 

...

...

...He’d still no idea where they were headed.

“Where _are_ we headed?” he asked, raising his head from his task; polishing the wood carvings on the ship's sides. 

An apathetic grunt was all he got in reply.

The sheer  The young boy ached for a brawl—it would be so _easy_ to start one—but even his belligerent nature quailed in the face of his work mate; an older man with, strangely enough, red hair. Actually, the red hair might be why his partner had ended up on the ship in the first place. Red dye wasn’t easy to find, let alone the vivid vermillion colouration the other sported.

Honestly though: the man might’ve been better off dying some cloth and peddling it. Dismissing the thought, the younger boy turned his attention back to his assigned task. _All right, ignore the ex-stowaway. Whatever._ Despite the accidental exile, the fact remained that the boy was fourteen—fifteen at the very most, and his small frame didn't exactly demand attention.

Except the man was saying something else.

“Well, apparently there’s plenty of fish there,” the sailor finally said in a moment of uncharacteristic humour, standing back from polishing the rails with a satisfied grunt. “I hope you like seafood, boy.” 

 _Boy!_ The younger man bristled at the perceived slight.

Still that was an answer—not the one he wanted, he’d hoped for a name at least—but he let it slide. Not a useful answer at all, though. He’d _still_ no idea where the ship was headed; as far as he could tell, ploughs and stone mills were hardly the typical merchant trade; being a stowaway, personally, the boy was glad was glad they hadn’t just decided to toss him off the side.

Not that sharks would find him appetizing. Too much bone. And the boy doubted that the meagre gruel the canteen insisted on serving was much good for putting flesh on bones.

The brunette lingered for a moment, and snorted, turning away; he’d emerged on deck for a moment, but the sight of land had stirred up memories For all that the boat was meant to be a new beginning for people feeling the Middle Kingdom, the atmosphere was one more akin to a death knell than a birth. Hell, even the sky reflected that; nothing like Qi’s cloudless blue—nothing but grey and rolling clouds, the boy had initially found it intensely difficult to separate the sky and the sea. 

 _“What are you running from?”_  

He wasn’t sure whether that had been a memory or the man next to him, but then—memories were like fungi. All they needed to grow was some damp place and a bit of a start. Fungus soup sounded delicious right about now, to be honest.

Allegiance to a country that had nothing for him, done nothing, seen nothing. For a “Middle Kingdom”, it sure _lacked_ any kind of central consensus. The constant warlord skirmishes had been the the country at its truest; even the damned _dialects_ were horrendously varied.

He remembered famine, hunger; nothing but roots to eat in the winter and, sometimes, grain in the summer. Death probably.

Or maybe he’s been running from _himself_ ; running from the horrendous gash he’d traced red-raw across his sister’s back, courtesy of a fresh new blade—who knew that military grade armour was that thin—or perhaps; running from the threat of death by the alleged military, the town “saviours”. Because, of course, the best way to regain whatever pride they’d had left was join the damned conquerors, wasn’t it?

Working for the Qi warlord had done nothing for him; he’d gotten nothing for his service but a splinted arm and a permanent limp, the scar tissue making itself known with every shuddering step. 

“So, _boy_." There it was again! That infuriating, condescending as hell, and _slow_ , drawl. "What's your name?”

That was definitely said by the man next to him; the red-haired elder must’ve been feeling talkative, today. He looked over at his fellow sailor, and the answer caught in his throat. After everything, his first reaction, his old name, might've been a lie. 

He paused, before speaking, mouth quirked in askance. “Hm. We’re going to a different place, right?”

A grunted affirmative.

“Mm, my name’s A—”

“We’re going somewhere _else,_ ” the man stressed, interrupting the younger boy's introduction, gaze distant. So he wasn’t alone in fleeing the Qin; a bitter smile curved its way onto his face, tracing lines that were to become embedded deep into his face in the future—but not yet.

“Kirishima,” he finally said, keeping his gaze fixed on the approaching shore. The vegetation was certainly shrouded in mist, and as far as he could tell, there was no land bridge linking it to the Qin. 

 God, he hoped that wasn’t the case.He’d barely survived the last skirmish as it was: siblings or not, best archer or not, he doubted his sister would have any say in the fate of a bandit deserter. Maybe he’d cast in his lot with the losing side, but his pride would never allow him to go begging for help.

Yet, he did miss home. It was bittersweet, really, the promise of a new beginning. That lofty official commanding the ship may have been free to compose all the poetry he wanted, but for the boy...Well, even the sky was different here. 

Shaking his head, the dark haired boy dismissed the thought.

"Kirishima Ayato,” he said, tasting the different lilt of the name. It was as good as any, really. Who would _care_ about his true name, about a ship’s boy identity, once the vessel docked? There were maybe a thousand other sailors on board, and the last thing anybody cared about was a stowaway.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user Akutazu. Merry Christmas! :)


End file.
